


Speak No English

by campylobacter



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Language Kink, Orgasm, Pastiche, Porn Battle, Prompt Fic, Semipublic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campylobacter/pseuds/campylobacter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vala wants to play a game, but Daniel sets the rules. For Porn Battle X, hosted by oxoniensis. [Mentions Jack/Daniel] Winner of the 2010 Gatefic Award for Daniel/Vala Smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak No English

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otterlymerry (ivanolix)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanolix/gifts).



> Prompts given by MerryK: words, forbidden, dangerous, offworld, lick. Story concept &amp; punchline by oceania. Meta-pastiche of clichéd purple prose porn. Kindly beta-read by oceania &amp; hummingfly67. Soundtrack: "Push It" by Garbage

[ ](http://www.gatefic.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=19:2010awardswinners&catid=2:gfawards2010)

"_Tal bet, kree_," he commands while scraping the beginnings of a beard on the tender skin at the back of her thigh, and interprets her intake of breath as compliance.

She'd insisted on playing this high-risk game while draped facedown atop a waist-high altar ornamented with the remnants of a DHD, and he'd complied with one stipulation: speak no English.

As he trails an alphabet of kisses from the inside of her knee to her ass, he wonders, _Is the immediate imperative_ kree _too harsh? It denotes an ultimatum, and connotes death._ Her moist heat near his lips chases away that doubt, and he lets a slow, warm breath gust across her folds even as he parts her legs wider with more force than necessary.

"Daniel…"

He can't punish her for saying it -- his name predates English -- but does she know what it means, that _she_ might be the god who judges _him_? The added humidity of his breath intensifies her scent: musk and metal, salt and syrup. He inhales with his mouth, engulfs her with the word _bah'nee_, this time not from Goa'uld but Abydonian, learned among people who needed a word for _sweetness_ while enduring the bitterness of slavery. She's slick and soft, the architecture of her sex providing intricate surfaces for the tip of his tongue to explore, lingering at the doorway of a shrine.

She's playing his game now, Goa'uld words escaping her mouth with the harsh morphemes of a false god, demanding more, using the formal words for _staff_ and _cup_ and _union_, elevating the usage from charmingly euphemistic to emblematic as his mouth teases and pulls her labia. She arches her back to grant him easier access to her _amulet_, and soon he's the one surrendering, tonguing her clit until she trembles and pours _honey_ from her _cup_, from which he gladly drinks.

He waits until her tremors subside, then draws away from her heated flesh, unbuttons his fly, and _plants_ his _staff_ in her _garden_, but can't quite pronounce the words correctly; they all sound like her name: Vala.

How easily she's on his lips during these heady, surreptitious weeks -- her name, her mouth, her cunt -- so easily that he doesn't need to worry about shouting _Jack_ when he comes (although Jack had been flattered when he'd shouted _Sha're_ during an orgasm). Yet even as he bends over Vala's back to lip the curve of her shoulder, he knows she'd demand details of his past sexual superlatives: the quickest time, the strangest position, the longest orgasm -- curious where others would be jealous. So he had let her guess, dropped hints, decoys, watched her writhe as he'd pushed into her the last time they made love, as now, using slow, short motions to start, letting her wet warmth around his cock build the need, escalate the desire. Each thrust reduces his vocabulary and increases his pace; each moan that leaves her throat calls an answering one in his, until his pleasure, too, is audible.

She wants him deeper, pushes against him instead of saying it, and so he pushes back, which makes her left hand push one of the ornaments on the altar -- the one he'd identified as this planet's point of origin. They'd all been frustrated at being stranded for two days on this world, nearly a hemisphere away (according to Sam) from the populated area, the inoperable DHD near the rain-drenched 'Gate taunting them. The temple he and Vala are currently fucking in has no windows; he'd told Mitchell he needed Vala to "hold the flashlight" while he attempted to decipher glyphs that look like Ethiopic characters mated to Bohr models.

The flashlight, cleverly propped on a makeshift tripod of sticks, illuminates damp strands of gleaming hair cross-hatching her forehead.

Their bodies produce wicked slapping sounds that underscore the rising urgency in their voices, articulate in the intimate argot of coupling, not of speech. Pushing becomes thrusting, which becomes grinding, which becomes pounding and he's not rough enough for her so he drives in harder, until he swears he can hear a Stargate grinding as it rotates and engages chevrons. He's heard it so many times he can conjure the memory of its sound without closing his eyes, and can't tell until it's too late that it actually _is_ a 'Gate, a second 'Gate beneath them as the altar drops away and a trap door opens over the brilliant vortex of a kawoosh. And it's the most beautiful moment of his life that instant, the blue light spilling into his vision as his climax rips through him, as his ecstasy roars out of him, as the roar of the kawoosh settles into the undulating pool of the event horizon, Vala undulating in synchrony.

Then they're falling into it; he grips her wrists to keep her close, the IDC transmitter on her wristband emitting a familiar beep as it gouges into his palm. He hopes they're not going to die from this, but really doesn't care if he does; this is one of the better ways to do it, in his experience.

The rush and flow and nearly instantaneous disassembly and reassembly through a wormhole will feel like an orgasm from now on, and it's all Vala's fault. All Vala's fault that they're rolling together, locked in their backwards embrace, down the ramp in the SGC's 'Gateroom, in front of several SFs, the control room personnel, and General Landry, whose bushy brows slide up his forehead as he notices their pants at their knees.

"You've got some explaining to do, Dr. Jackson… and Vala," he says calmly. "Re-brief and then we'll de-brief."


End file.
